


Tennessee

by littlefrog1025



Series: You Are Now Leaving Beacon Hills [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drunken Flirting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 03, Road Trips, Sightseeing, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 13:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4668488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlefrog1025/pseuds/littlefrog1025
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles try to shed some of their guilt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tennessee

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the LONG wait. Got caught up with other fics and wedding ish. Enjoy!

                                                               

* * *

Stiles has a panic attack.

Derek thinks it’d be a fun surprise to take him to a gym that had a rock climbing wall. Stiles takes three steps inside and suddenly can’t breathe.

The people staring, hovering, “trying to help,” make it worse. It takes everything in Derek’s power not to wolf-out on them.

Someone calls 911 when Stiles starts looking blue.

_Fuck it_ , Derek thinks; he lifts Stiles into his arms and takes off running from the gym and down the street. He’s partially shifted, but going so fast people don’t notice.

He reaches their hotel parking lot and ducks behind a Mercedes, begging Stiles to breathe.

Derek takes a deep breath himself, then tries for a calmer, more relaxed tone as he pulls Stiles into his lap. He softly shushes him, rubbing his chest in smooth circles. “I’m here. I’m here,” he says.

Slowly, very slowly, Stiles’ breath returns to normal.

Neither know how long they’ve been sitting there on the asphalt.

The first words from the human’s mouth are: “I want to leave.”

So they pack there bags, check out and head northeast, passing state lines into Tennessee.

»»»

It’s late. Past midnight, and they’re crossing into Memphis over the Hernando de Soto Bridge when Stiles finally speaks.

“Erica.”

“…What about her,” Derek asks, curious to the connection.

“She had a seizure in gym class. When we were scaling a rock climbing wall. It was the first time I actually paid any attention to her. She was like a ghost until then.”

“Now, she’s a ghost for real,” the werewolf says, guilt dripping from his tone.

Stiles sits up straight. He faces Derek, as much as he can, restricted by his seat belt. “My panic attack wasn’t your fault, Derek. You had a good idea and no way of knowing I’d react like that. I lost it over the sad memory of a friend that’s now gone. That’s it. Okay?”

Derek nods, but he’s not really listening.

“Do we need to pull over again?”

“Stiles—”

“Say: ‘Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault’.”

“Stiles—”

“Say it or drop me off at the greyhound station.”

The steady heartbeat in his chest lets Derek know he’s serious.

“…Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault,” he says softly, barely above a whisper.

“Good. Now say it again.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles is nothing but genuine in his request.

“…Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault.”

“One more time. A little louder.”

Derek sighs. “Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault,” he says in a normal tone.

“Five more times and I’ll leave you alone.”

Derek scowls at him, but the boy just responds with raised eyebrows over an expected stare.

“Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault. Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault. Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault. Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault. Stiles’ panic attack was not my fault,” he repeats.

Surprisingly, he feels…better. It feels like truth, because, well, maybe it is.

“Now say: ‘Erica’s death was not my fault’.”

And that tinge of confidence is abruptly gone. Derek feels like he’s the one on the verge of a panic attack now. “W-W-What?” It’s suddenly really hot in the car. He rolls his window down a bit, letting the cool, night air inside.

“You don’t have to say it a bunch of times. Just once.”

“…No, Stiles. I… I need to…”

“What? Carry around a shit-ton of unnecessary guilt? No. That’s not what this trip is about. Not anymore.”

“If I say that, what do you get to say?”

Stiles looks seasick for a moment, before he swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “Anything you want.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You say that about Erica, and I’ll say anything you want.”

“Okay.”

“One catch.”

Derek scoffs. _Knew it._

“Neither of us have to say it now, but we definitely have to say it before we leave Memphis.”

“How about Tennessee?”

“No. No hedging. Otherwise, we’d end up living here.”

Derek snorts.

“Deal?”

Derek nods. “Deal.”

Stiles looks a lot less queasy now, but still lets out a hard sigh.

Derek knows exactly how he feels.

»»»

It’s nearly noon when they wake. Long drive and late night getting into town.

They make it to the Civil Rights Museum. The stare, marveled and speechless at the balcony where he was shot. The Lorraine Motel.

Derek wants to say something. So does Stiles, but there’s nothing… What can they say, feeling eclipsed by the monument, and what it’s meant to the world for the last 53 years?

Stiles had mentioned wanting to stand in the exact spot, thinking maybe he’d feel…something. Something more profound than what he may be feeling now.

Yet, once they got there he changed his mind, believing it would desecrate the man’s immortal legacy.

So, they’re standing outside, heads tilted a bit, eyes shielded with sunglasses from the hot, southern sun, as they just…stare.

Stiles sniffles. He’s crying soundlessly.

Derek’s eyes water, too.

After a minute more, they silently walk back to their car, having already seen the rest of the museum, saving this particular moment for last.

They don’t speak until the motel sign has completely disappeared from the rearview mirror.

“Hungry,” Derek asks.

“Sure.”

Stiles manages to eat all of his coleslaw, half his cornbread, and a small BBQ drumstick without looking like he’s digesting cement.

Derek, however, takes down a full rack of barbecue ribs, potato salad, collard greens, baked mac and cheese, yams, and a large piece of cornbread like it was nothing.

They hang out at the BBQ joint, Pig on Beale, for about another hour, sharing a slice of blackberry cobbler that Stiles manages to get down, then head back to the hotel.

Derek is full and exhausted. He skips running, or using the hotel gym, and crashes on the bed. They got a single again. Neither of them doubts they’ll be sleeping alone any longer on this trip.

Stiles sits beside him on the bed, channel surfing until he falls asleep, cuddled against Derek.

»»»

“There’s nothing wrong with Elvis. I like Elvis, so if you want to go to Graceland, just say so.” Stiles sounds like he’s being open-minded and compromising, but there’s this asshole-grin on his face that says otherwise.

“I like his music, okay?”

“He makes good music. _Devil in Disguise_ is a good song.”

“And so is _Jailhouse Rock_ , _Are You Lonesome Tonight_ , _(It’s A) Long Lonely Highway_ , and a slew of other songs he’s sung. Do you want to keep trying to shame me for wanting to go to Graceland, or are you going to shut up and go to Graceland with me?”

Stiles laughs. “I’m going to shut up and go to Graceland with you.”

“Thank you. Now, get in the damn car. And wipe that grin off your face.”

Stiles climbs in. “Just never pegged you as an Elvis fan.”

Derek turns the engine over. “Thought you were shutting up?”

Stiles giggles as they turn into the street headed toward the mansion.

»»»

They’re headed back to the hotel. Stiles is wearing a pair of gold, Elvis-inspired sunglasses, and chewing loudly on a piece of licorice as he thumbs through a glossy picture of book of the singer.

The wind is whipping through the open windows. Sun setting behind them, when Derek says it:

“Erica’s death was not my fault.”

Stiles chokes on his candy. “W-W-What?”

“…Erica’s death was not my fault,” he repeats.

“Holy shit you said it,” he says, looking at Derek with nothing but awe on his face. Despite the oversized glasses on his face. “You really said it. Why?”

“She would’ve liked those glasses. She would’ve made me try on a pair and beg me to take a goofy picture with her.”

“You were thinking about her.”

“I always think about her.”

“Me, too. She made we wish I wasn’t so infatuated with Lydia. That I took the time to know her. See her.”

“Don’t bully yourself about it.”

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Stiles jokes. There’s a small trace of a smile on Derek’s face at that. “Do you really believe it, or are you just staying it, hoping you will.”

“…The second one.”

“Nothing wrong with that. You say something enough times and after awhile the only thing you hear in it is the truth.”

“Hopefully.”

“Hope is all either of us are asking for.”

Derek nods, because it is. They don’t want the stars in the nightsky, or world peace. They don’t want it all. They just want to eat, sleep, and smile sometimes. They want to climb out of bed in the morning without already regretting the day.

They understand the life they live. It comes with things like despair and death.

But every now and again, a little buoyancy would be nice.

»»»

They’re eating barbecue and listening to amazing blues music. Stiles is three whiskey sours deep and clapping on the table in time with the drums.

“I can play the drums,” he shouts to Derek.

It’s loud in there, but Derek can hear him even if he whispered. “Since when,” he shouts back.

“I learned in 5th grade, when I was ten. Scott and I had some big idea that we’d be in a band and get famous and make a shit ton of money.”

Derek smiles. A genuine, wide smile, thinking of Stiles and Scott in their little makeshift band of two, because he doubts anyone else volunteered to join them. He knows they probably weren’t the most popular of kids even back then unfortunately.

“You should do that more often. It’s nice.”

“What?”

“Smile. It’s really sexy.”

Derek tenses, turning stiff and hoping Stiles can’t see how red he turns despite the darkly lit room.

“Did I embarrass you,” Stiles asks with a slick grin on his face.

_Little shit_ , Derek thinks.

“You’re drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate your smile.”

“I think it’s about time we cut you off.”

“All I said was that you had a nice smile, sourwolf. Jesus.”

But it’s enough. It’s enough to make him come undone and do something dangerous. Like tell Stiles his smile is far better than his own. And how many countless times he’s thought of putting his mouth against it.

“I know… Thank you.”

Stiles raises a curved eyebrow, surprised by the eventual gratitude.

“I know how to take a compliment.”

“I imagine you would.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you must get them often enough to know how,” Stiles states plainly.

“…Not anymore,” he says, suddenly not wanting to continue this conversation.

Stiles luckily gets the hint.

They turn their attention back to the blues band on stage jamming away on some sexy number that’s all sax and snare drum.

“They’re amazing,” Stiles says after a while.

“I didn’t know you liked blues music.”

“You didn’t know I played the drums either,” he winks at Derek.

“I think we have a habit of surprising each other.”

“That we do… I used to think knowing everything about you would be, I don’t know, interesting, I guess, but I like this more. I like us figuring each other out in pieces more.”

“Me, too.”

“Why?”

“Why do you?”

Stiles shrugs. “Squashes expectations and assumptions. Now you,” he asks, signaling their waitress for another whiskey sour.

_It feels like we’re dating_ , he wants to say, but instead he says: “Same,” taking a sip of his Jack and coke.

Stiles eyes him curiously for a moment, like he can almost smell the bullshit wafting off Derek, then turns back to the band, making Derek grateful.

He knows better than to lie to Stiles. He may not be a wolf, but he has an uncanny talent for sniffing out truth in a pile of garbage.

»»»

Derek holds him up as they stumble to their room. He tried to carry him, but Stiles went into some loud, drunken rant about how he’s “not a 16th century English maiden! No matter how much I want to be in your arms. Oops. I shouldn’t have said that. Shhhh. Don’t tell Derek I said that.”

Derek decided the best thing to do would be to ignore the comment as much as he could. But it rang in his ears and rattled in his head like a church bell.

_Fuck._

Derek manages to get them in the room and tosses Stiles on the bed. Stiles groans.

“You going to be sick,” he asks, grabbing the wastebasket by the desk. “Stiles. Are you going to throw up?”

He swallows hard. “No. I’m good. I chewed it back.”

“Attractive.”

“Thank you. I killed Allison. There. I said it before you could make me,” Stiles blurts out of nowhere.

Derek… Derek has to count to ten.

He has to calm his wolf, because right now it wants out. It wants to rage and snarl and growl and sink it’s teeth, it’s claws, into anything and everything. It’s _fucking_ pissed.

“What…” He breathes deep, hearing the growl in his voice. “What makes you think I’d make you say something that isn’t true? Especially that?”

“Because it is true. It’s true like Earth rotating on an axis is true. Unequivocally true. So true it’s—”

**“Stop that! Right now!”**

He didn’t mean to yell, but Stiles… Stiles…

“I hurt a lot of people, Derek,” he says. His voice is shaky. He’s crying. Derek can’t see his face. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling and Derek is on the other side of the room, holding a wastebasket, but he can hear it. Smell it’s salty, tart scent falling from tawny-brown eyes.

“That wasn’t you.”

“Yes, it was. I hurt so many, and the worst part is I knew it would happen. I knew one day whatever is in my head will come out and destroy the things I care about. People I love. Why’d you let me come with you? I’m just going to get you killed.”

And Derek hears his own voice spill out of Stiles, and it crushes something deep and soft in him. It makes him shudder, feeling cold. He wouldn’t wish that kind of self-hatred, that kind of guilt, on anyone.

Not even Kate. But that’s because he wants her to suffer in a different kind of way.

“Say: ‘I’m a good person’.”

“Derek… Please. I can’t right now.”

He puts down the wastebasket and climbs atop the bed. He pulls Stiles up into a sitting position. “Say it. Say: ‘I’m a good person’.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m a good person, Stiles. Say that for me. Say it and you don’t have to talk or eat or sleep alone anymore if you don’t want to. Say it and every day I will remind myself that Erica is not my fault. Just say it once. For me. Please.”

Stiles cries, wiping his tears on the sleeve on his green flannel. Derek’s hand comes up, gently onto his face. His thumb sweeps over a crawling tear and wipes it away. Stiles looks at him. _Really_ looks at him…

“I… I’m… I’m a good person,” he says in low, meek voice.

“Erica’s death was not my fault.”

“…I’m a good person,” he repeats softly.

“Erica’s death was not my fault.”

“I’m a good person.”

“You are. I wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t.”

Stiles, without warning, crawls into Derek’s lap. Derek holds him.

They’re quiet for a while. Just listening to each other’s breaths and the humming of the central air breezing into the room from the vents.

“…I could never do this with Scott.”

“I highly doubt the two of you have never sat in each other’s lap.”

Stiles’ head shoots up from Derek’s shoulder. He’s staring hard at Derek who’s confused by Stiles’ sudden—

Laughing. He’s laughing. Like really laughing; loud, long, and obnoxious. Bowled over, face beet red, holding his stomach with tears in his eyes.

And Derek just stares.

Because it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.


End file.
